


Snow in Fall

by Moonsheen



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Bonus Ti'zo, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, OG Nightwings, Post-Canon, Recovery, Trauma, revolutionary boyfriendS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/pseuds/Moonsheen
Summary: Volfred Sandalwood copes with the fallout of the original Nightwings' last Rite.





	Snow in Fall

The water fell back to the earth, spattering the field. First it came in wet drops, as the roar of the falls reestablished itself. The snow came after that, descending like a lace curtain over the sacred grounds. Silence descended with it. The light faded. The clouds closed in. The stained glass windows went dim. Silence came after, punctuated only by the howling of the winter winds.

The imp screamed and dove down into the ravine.

The other triumvirate was long gone. Their footprints an angry slash in the snow leading away from the peak, and so the Reader was truly alone on that peak. He stumbled forward, roots dragging in the drifts that had gathered close to the edge. He didn’t make it far. In the absence of the star’s protection, the winds gusted bitterly. He sank down onto his knees,  then sank onto his hands, staring into the blackness below.

The imp hadn’t been the first to go over.

The Gate Guardian lowered her instrument with a sneer.

“Pitiable,” she said, her lip curling at the sight below. Her voice was level, and she had watched the proceedings with little expression, but the hand on the body of the black mandolin was tight, and her knuckles stood out. “To think it should come to this. They find new ways to make mockery of us. The stars should be ashamed of their weakness. I suppose it spares me the work, but now your duties shall be twofold.”

She meant to say this to her counterpart, The Lone Minstrel. He ought to have been there. He ought have been perched across from her, as he had been for over eight centuries -- but he was quite gone. For the first time in at least three centuries, The Gate Guardian blinked.

“...Tariq?”

But the Lone Minstrel did not answer. He made a quiet line through the snow, his lute strapped to his back. He stopped behind the Reader, doubled over. The wind changed. It pulled the snow sideways and tugged at his hat and at the Minstrel’s sleeves, but he paid it no mind.

“Reader, sir,” he murmured.

No answer. The Reader had pulled off his mask and his hood during the Liberation Ceremony. The snow piled on his shoulders and the top of his head, but he didn’t move to brush it off.

“Volfred, sir,” tried the Lone Minstrel, instead. The Reader’s head did not even move. Another gust of wind carried the snow across both their faces. The Minstrel’s gold eyes were bright in the grey dim of it. Slowly, as though he had never tried anything like this before in his existence, the Minstrel reached out with one pale hand, and rested it on the Reader’s shoulder.

“We have to go,” he whispered. “Please.”

The Reader let himself be led away from the edge. The Minstrel brought him to the wagon. The Minstrel set him in a chair, took his mask from him, and brought him a blanket and tea. The Reader didn’t move or speak. The Blackwagon was too quiet and too dark, even with all the lamps lit. In a few hours the imp returned, exhausted, sopping wet, and alone. He collapsed on the table next to the Reader, and, here, Volfred rested a hand on his shivering back.

“Hyroom,,” said Ti’zo. He tried, but the winds had been too strong, and he’d found nothing.

“...Ah, it is fine, my friend,” said Volfred, blankly. “I am sure you tried your best. I am sure they won’t be long.”

They wouldn’t be back and he knew it.

When the cold imp crawled into his lap, Volfred found he could do little more than curl his hand over him. He could think of little else to say.

* * *

 

The chemicals burned into ash. The flames died. There was nothing left but cold in its absence. Bertrude lowered her hand with a low hiss, her coils roiling against themselves. Her scales rattled in pure irritation.

“Rrrgh,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Perhaps it is a matter of the price?” asked Volfred. Bertrude tended to under charge him. In the past he often offset this by offering her what favors he could on the side. It didn’t really work when it came to matters such as this. Magic obeyed certain laws of propriety. He knew some of them. She knew all of them. He held the knife, ready to offer up another branch, but Bertrude’s rattling grew louder.

“No. More sshall cause ye permanant damage,” said Bertrude. “‘Tis not a matter of the price. There iss simply no answer. It is not an unheard of occurrence.”

“Has it has been too long?” It had taken him some time to make it to her shop.

Bertrude shook her head. “Or there is nothing left to be said. Or there is peace. Or the stars are poorly positioned. There are many reasons. ‘Tis yet beyond our understanding. The failure is not thine, Sandalwood. Thou needst not offer more. Our calculations and charts are what must be revised.”

She took his hand -- the one holding the knife -- before he could consider trying anyway to offer the price. She didn’t have to bother. The knife fell wordlessly from his hand. He sank back into his chair.

“Oh no, my dear friend, do not take on what was my fool’s errand,” he said, his eyes dark in thought. “I am very grateful that you tried. Thank you for all your efforts, and for putting me up for all this time. I know I have not been the finest guest for you.”

In fact, he had hardly been capable of speech in that first month. He was amazed she’d had the patience for it.

“Our doors are always open to Volfred Sandalwood,” said Bertrude, her second set of eyelids flickering, “as long as you have need of us, we shall provide the means.”

“You have been more to me than just a means,” said Volfred. “I owe you more than could ever truly be repaid. Let me at least have my contacts bring you a new lab set. It would be a great comfort to know _your_ needs are met.”

Bertrude was silent. She scooped up a bucket of snow and threw it over the remains of the failed ritual. It gurgled, blue smoke wisping between them.

“....rrrgh,” she said. “So, thou plans to leave. When?”

She always did have a way of reading into his intent. Whether through her scrying spells, or simply their long acquaintance, it hardly mattered.

“The next full moon,” said Volfred. “I have imposed on you long enough.”

She cut him off with a harsher hiss. “What have we said about our doors, Sandalwood! No. No imposition. We simply wish to know where thoust means to go.”

“I will head south, to bury the blackwagon,” said Volfred. “After that … I will find somewhere quiet. And secluded. A place where the earth is warm. It will do me some good, I think.”

“Liess,” snapped Bertrude, rearing over him all at once. She could nearly match his height, crumpled as he was in the chair. Her hood stirred. Her familiars wormed and hissed in her sleeves. “To speak of debt and of comfort. Dost thou plan to ever come this way again?”

He had hoped to avoid this conversation. He’d hoped to avoid a lot of things, since Alodiel.

“When the winds carry my leaves in the fall, I shall be here,” said Volfred. “If you seek me in a wood, you will hear my voice.”

Saps had no prayers, this was one of the phrases that came closest to it. Bertrude recognized it. Her nostrils flared.

“No,” she said, “Speak not of endings.”

“It is no end for me, Bertrude,” said Volfred. As much for him as for her, he realized. How the thought weighed in his core. How his memories weighed even heavier. He had hoped, at least, to leave a few proper last words where they were owed, but he was thwarted at every corner. “It is merely the next stage of my existence. We saps may take root any time we choose, and my time to choose may be soon.”

Bertrude made a deep noise in her throat, and coiled around him all at once. He let her. She dug her nails into the back of his tunic, but he didn’t brush her away. Her spines were sheathed and she would never actually try to stop him.

“Reconsider,” she whispered. “The work is not yet done.”

“No,” he said, “but, perhaps, it is time another took it in my stead. My mind has become too much for this body, and I find everything has begun to ache.”

“Time sshall heal thee.”

“It may,” he allowed, “but it will change me. I find my heart too full, and so the memory flickers already, like a dying pyre. At least, in this way, I may preserve something of him. At least in wood, if naught else.”

“Foolish,” snapped Bertrude. “Humans are brief creatures. They must burn hot to leave their mark in this world. It is understood.”

“I knew full well,” said Volfred, lost for a moment in that snow drift, on that terrible peak. “Ah, how I feel it scorched into me now. I had hoped I would have more years. I hoped I would have time to offer him more.”

“Offer it in deed,” said Bertrude. “Reconsider. Or at least take a knife for shearing, if thou hast second thoughts.”

He let her talk him down. He let her drape a blanket over him. He asked for paper and ink. He wrote a letter a friend about that lab set. He let her brew him tea -- a medicinal tea that calmed his nerves and reminded him of the wagon in spring. He left on the next full moon, like he said he would.

* * *

 

But even this promise he failed to keep. One morning, an imp landed on the branch of a fine tree overlooking a lake in the Black Basin. A little bangle winked around his neck.

[[Ah, Ti’zo]] said the tree, which was not quite a tree entirely, not yet anyway. [[Is that you?]]

Indeed it was. Ti’zo had wanted to visit him. Ti’zo had missed him very much. He had followed the sounds of laughter on the wind. He was very glad to have found this place. He wasn’t sure he could retrace his steps.

[[Thank you, my friend]] said the tree. [[Please rest as long as you like. My arm is open to you, but, when you are feeling up to it, would you mind running a message for me?]]

* * *

 

Black Basin smouldered in the winter, and the ash fell in sheets over the bramble. It it did not stop the Lone Minstrel as he forged his path through the sharp, creeping brush. He left light footsteps in the ash. Once or twice, a branch grasped at him, a beast growled at him, but they paused and then went on their way with little memory of him. The Lone Minstrel was very good at not sticking in one’s mind. He stopped at the familiar place. The agreed place. The old shack, and the forest lake. An inch of ash lay across the roof.

Next to the lake, a tree was very busy pulling itself up by its roots. It was not easy work. The tree had been there for some time. His roots had grown very deep into the earth. It took some hours for the sap to extract himself fully from the Glade. His fingers had grown into branches. He managed, somehow, to fumble with a rusted knife that had been stabbed into the earth beside him for the last year or so.

His face was nearly lost in leaves. He had to trim them back. He sawed off the excess. He winced. He had gone deep enough into the growth that he had developed nerves in these extended pieces, but, still, he trimmed them down to a reasonable length. The Minstrel waited until he was done. Volfred piled the clippings next to his freed roots, and threw the knife into the lake. The Minstrel knelt beside him.

“Volfred, sir,” he murmured. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Oh? Was I not clear on that?” asked Volfred Sandalwood, as he shook out his hands. They ached. The tips bled green. He would have to patch them up in a little while, but they were most definitely hands again. The Minstrel handed him a handkerchief. Volfred pressed it over his fingers. “...Thank you, Tariq. Yes, I do think I have. The Glade may take me in time, but I found there is some work I have left unfinished. Could I trouble you for a favor?”

“Trouble me all you like,” said Tariq, with a tip of his hat. “I am at your disposal.”

* * *

 

In the Moonlight Alcove, the Reader tried her best, but there was just nothing for it. It had been hard enough shoveling the snow the first time around. Jodi had tried to help her, but she wouldn’t have it. Pam had offered her a foot rub, but she refused. She’d managed. She’d more than managed. She’d even gotten the whole path clear. It’d been a good day’s work. She’d been very proud of herself. Then, the next morning, she found another foot of it in all the places she’d shoveled. She’d shouted incoherently and thrown herself straight into the drift. It was Volfred who picked her up and handed her her cane. He’d returned with the wagon that morning. He’d been gone for two months, this time.

“Easy, my girl,” said Volfred, brushing snow from her hood. “We cannot have you taking ill, can we?”

She didn’t care. She’d almost gotten the entire walkway. She wondered if they ought to put a word with someone. Did the Gate Guardian take complaints?

“Only one would have the nerve, and alas that person is not me,” said Volfred.

That earned him a look. Wasn’t he the one trying to overthrow the Commonwealth?

“It is true, but you seek a battle with the laws of nature,” said Volfred. “My objections are with the laws of man.”

He suggested they walk awhile. The Reader, sullen, but glad for his return, agreed, and together he showed her one of the gentler of the mountain slopes. She was surprised to find it. In their time in the Alcove, she’d found many little crooks and views, but this was a new one.

“It took me some time to find it myself,” admitted Volfred, “but I did once have a habit of wandering, much to my own fellows’ displeasure. I could make things very difficult for them. You are not the only one with a stubborn streak, my girl. Perhaps it is a part of what makes us who we are.”

[[ And what we are ]] he added, in the Old Tongue.

The Reader couldn’t help but feel he was being a bit of a show-off, but she wondered if that wandering was how he’d found the Moonlight Alcove.

“Yes and no,” said Volfred. Together they’d left an odd set of tracks. The Reader, with her cane, and Volfred’s roots. “Once, we arrived ahead of our adversary by several days. I suppose I did get restless, but they knew better than to let me at it alone. We… Oralech and I... “

Volfred paused. The snow had lessened during their walk, offering them a clear view of Alodiel’s plunging face. 

“...We followed the writing on the walls,” he said, gathering himself. “It’s a fascinating place, isn’t it? I believe the Scribes may have once resided here, during the construction of the gate, but that is merely my theory.”

The Reader wondered if Volfred would like to return to the wagon.

“Mm? My apologies, are you tired?”

The Reader was fine. She just noticed Volfred didn’t seem to enjoy the weather any more than her. She wondered if he’d like to turn back.

“Ah,” said Volfred. He had, as it happened, underestimated her again. “It is kind of you to offer. But let us walk a little longer, if you do not mind. I find sometimes it helps clear our heads, and there is no better place in this world for either of us than the path ahead.”

* * *

 

The Commonwealth of Sahr had been a warm country. The Sahrian Union, despite the change in name and management, was no different. But still, now and again, a chill could roll in from the northern peaks. It was late afternoon when the flurries started. The council was in session, drafting plans for the upcoming reconstruction of the Spiral Sanctum. Prime Minister glanced out the window. Snow had stuck to the glass. When the snow began to gather on the sill, Volfred called for the meeting to be adjourned.

“There seems no sense in keeping you until dark,” said Volfred. “The streets will be icy. I wish you all a safe journey home.”

Volfred’s personal quarters were located in the main government building. He summoned a carriage instead. He gave the driver the directions of Vibernum Row, the university that occupied the western district of the capital. He left his aides behind. His security detail hated it when he did things like this, but Volfred oft reminded them that he had survived under far more pressing threats, and, besides, he had a knack for slipping out under heavy observation.

At least if they let him go without complaint, he promised them they’d know where to find him: the lecture hall to the left of the central administration building. A lecture was in session. Volfred settled quietly in the back row. The speaker paused. The students murmured.  He had crept in quietly, but one could not exactly ignore when the Prime Minister of the Union chose to pay a random visit to the school.

“...Your proposals are due next week,” finished the lecturer, with a raised eyebrow. “I shall accept recitation and written work. An extra point to those of you who ignore the old fool sitting in the back there as you leave.”

The hall emptied quickly. Oralech unhooked the anatomical diagram from the board and closed it with a sharp ‘snap.’

“Just a point?” asked Volfred. “Show them some mercy, my dear.”

“You lecture me on a subject I know better than most,” said Oralech, stalking up the aisles, and the steps that led up to the doors, “but I want them to get this right. Why have you come, Volfred? Surely there are yet matters of the state to attend, and you have yet to be deposed.”

He stopped a step down from Volfred, head tilted to one side. Oralech had long lost his horns, but not the habit of bending to account for them.

“They would have to call a vote,” said Volfred.

“A crisis, then?” asked Oralech. “Attempted assassination? Failed coup d’etat?”

“Nothing so dire as that,” said Volfred. “I just I wanted to see you.”

Oralech glanced out the window. He saw the snow out on the green, and he understood.

“Ah,” he said.

He put his hands over Volfred’s.

“My apologies,” murmured Volfred. “I do hate to impose.”

“As though it has ever stopped you,” said Oralech, but there was nothing but warmth in his voice, and no sign of a demon’s growl at all. He gave Volfred’s hands a squeeze, running his finger over his rings. “I am here, am I not?”

“Yes,” said Volfred, squeezing back. “So you are.”

 


End file.
